A Time of Blood (Of Blood and Bone #2) - John Gwynne Page 0,82

said as he approached the white bear, holding his hand out.

The white bear lifted his head and took a great sniff, then heaved his bulk from the ground and ambled towards Drem, who waited patiently.

The bear licked Drem’s hand with a huge, sandpaper-rough tongue, lapping the honey from his palm and all the while making contented snuffling, grumbling sounds. With his other hand Drem patted the bear’s cheek and dug deep into the animal’s thick fur to scratch his neck.

When the bear had licked every last fraction of honey from Drem’s hand, leaving it drenched and dripping with saliva, Drem flicked globs of spittle from his hand and scooped some more honey from his jar, spreading it over a rock.

The bear set to licking that clean and Drem checked on his wounds, used his water skin to wash them out, then applied fresh poultices of yarrow and comfrey. They were improving but were not yet as healed as Hammer’s.

“We are all slaves to our bellies,” Cullen said from behind Drem. He was leaning against a boulder with his arms folded across his chest.

“Speak for yourself,” Keld grunted as he clambered up onto the boulder, allowing him to see a little further into the distance.

Two specks were in the sky, a black smudge and a pale one, growing quickly larger, swooping down into the ravine.

“Stepor coming,” Flick squawked, over and over.

“Rab!” Cullen called out happily as the white smudge materialized into their friend and spiralled down to them.

“Friends, friends, friends,” Rab cawed as he alighted upon Cullen’s outstretched arm.

Flick landed on the boulder beside Keld and set to grooming his feathers on one wing, all the while a beady eye watching Rab.

“You did it, Rab,” Cullen said. “You brought help.”

“Rab did, Rab did,” the white crow squawked, hopping up and down from one claw to the other in his excitement. “Told Byrne Rab’s friends need help.”

“Ah, but you’re a good friend to us, Rab, and no denying,” Cullen said, grinning as he scratched the bird’s chest.

“Flick found you,” Flick reminded them from his boulder, shaking to ruffle his feathers up.

Do crows sulk? Drem wondered.

“Flick clever, Flick brave,” Rab cawed, bobbing his head.

“And we’re grateful to you, Flick,” Cullen said.

“Welcome,” Flick croaked.

Fen stood and sniffed the air, eyes fixed on the shadows in the ravine.

And then there were shapes appearing, two four-legged shadows flitting amongst boulders and twisted hawthorn, another figure forming behind them. A dark-haired man dressed simply in leather and fur, the only hint of ornamentation the silver-starred brooch that pinned his cloak. He had a scarred, honest face above a snarl of black beard as thick and wild as the hawthorns in the ravine, his body lean, like Keld’s, honed by the wilderness.

The huntsmen of Dun Seren all look like trappers. But with more weapons.

Axes and knives bristled from various belts strapped around his body, more hilts poking from his boots.

“Well met, Keld,” the dark-haired man said as Keld climbed from his perch atop the boulder and strode to him.

“Well met, Stepor,” Keld said, gripping Stepor’s forearm in the warrior grip.

“What took you?” Cullen said as he strolled over.

“The Desolation’s a big place,” Stepor grunted at Cullen, giving him a dark look from beneath bushy brows, but he took the young warrior’s arm all the same.

“Well, better late than never,” Cullen said, grinning.

“Late! Well, if you hadn’t gone and got yourself lost in the arse-end of the world, in winter…”

“I’m only jesting with you.” Cullen grinned, holding his hands up. “Ach, but it’s good to see a slice of home, is it not, Keld?”

“Aye, that it is,” Keld said. He was crouching, two enormous wolven-hounds sniffing and licking him. One was crow-black with a splash of white on one paw, the other was as red as rust. With a growl, Fen pushed in, reminding them who Keld belonged to.

“No need for jealousy, lad. You know Grack and Ralla, and we’re all on the same side here,” Keld said, tugging on one of Fen’s ears.

“And you must be Drem,” Stepor said.

“Aye,” Drem said.

Stepor strode to him, offering an arm. “Well met.”

Drem took Stepor’s arm. “Well met,” he said.

Stepor looked Drem up and down. He was shorter than Drem, most men were, but Drem still felt like a child being inspected. He resisted the urge to look away and forced himself to meet Stepor’s gaze. He’d never liked to be stared at, but his father had told him it was important to meet another man’s eye, and so Drem had trained